Mark
by inkspire
Summary: He always got his mark. He was the perfect assassin, he always got the job done. Until Wombosi. That was the mission when all heck broke loose and Jason went off grid, causing all the chaos that was Nicky's life as of late. N/J, postUltimatum.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story was written for Padfoot and Prongs, during a late-night fic prompting over the holidays and because I'm apparently only able to write in a linear story format, I didn't even finish this prompt until the holidays were over and I was back home, while both of them wrote about 4 short drabbles each, going through their prompts a lot quicker than me. ****Ah well. The rules for the prompt were just to use the word in any way, either as a central theme, a word, or the title, etc. **

**This is my first Bourne fic, and it's an attempt at a Nicky/Jason pairing. I haven't read the books, just seen all the movies. Since this takes place AFTER The Bourne Ultimatum, obviously there are ****_SPOILERS!!!!_**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Robert Ludlum (and Universal Pictures) owns Jason Bourne and said universe, not me.

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"...Also known as Jason Bourne, was shot and allegedly fell nearly ten stories into the Manhattan River." The little café seemed to blithely continue on despite the alarming news emitting from the little TV.

Nicky's heart leaped into her throat and her coffee cup slipped from her fingers, thankfully landing upright on the table with a loud clink. She ducked her head, glancing around surreptitiously to see if anyone had noticed her reaction, but nobody had. Her heart pounded wildly in panic; Jason just _couldn't_ be dead. He was Jason Bourne for Pete's sake!

She calmed down, her initial shock at the news wearing off as she remembered all the crazy situations he'd gotten himself out of. Nicky tried to convince herself that he'd be fine; she had to believe he was, she had to believe she'd be with him again. Despite his last words to her, this whole life on the run hadn't gotten any easier at all; she just wasn't cut out for stealth.

About a month ago at the bus station, she had said goodbye to Jason, with all their past memories at the forefront of her mind and bitterly aware he recalled none of them; she then rode the bus a few cities away. When it arrived, she backtracked a ways on foot to a nearby train station, taking the next train straight to Luxembourg, planning to make her way down the German border into Switzerland after spending a few weeks in Luxembourg to catch her breath, all the while trying to come up with a simple backstory.

When the train stopped in Luxembourg and she got off, she'd noticed a poster of herself on a bulletin board, right next to Jason's picture. She'd checked to see if anyone seemed to recognize her, and it had seemed she was safe as she left the station; but then she'd heard the far-off wail of sirens, so she booked it to the nearest shop, ducking inside quickly. Peering through the window, she breathed a sigh of relief as a squad car passed right by, stopping in down at the station. Nicky made her way out of the city then as soon as possible, eventually making her way successfully to Switzerland with no more narrow escapes.

And so here she was, in a small town nestled in a valley, relatively untouched by the outside world. Here she was Josie Quinn, a student estranged from her parents, backpacking her way across Europe to prove her independence. In this little town she could catch her breath before planning her next move – Jason had warned her not to stay anywhere for too long, and never to return to places she'd been already. That – unfortunately – included her beloved city of Paris, which she knew like the back of her hand.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the newscaster continued, yanking her back to the present. "After three days of searching, still no body has been found." A warm feeling settled in her chest at the thought of reuniting with Jason, hopefully soon. Nicky smiled, imagining the CIA's frustration at missing him, _again. _He was Jason Bourne, after all.

She thought back to the crisis back in Germany about a year ago. His name was always uttered like a curse, a deadly enemy intent on cutting to the heart of the organization, intent on crippling it, an ever-present threat. The mere mention of his name never failed to increase the tension in the room, mounting frustrations and proving the impossible could be done, yet again – but, only by Jason Bourne. He always did what he intended to do, regardless of any obstacles in his way. The stubborn determination he demonstrated when a black ops agent on his assignments had clearly spoken against any thought of crossing him then, and he was just as formidable now. He always got his mark, sometimes having to improvise clever solutions to problems or bending a few rules here and there to do so, but always getting his target in the end. He was the perfect assassin, he always got the job done.

Until Wombosi. That mission was when all heck broke loose, and Jason went off the grid, causing all the panic and chaos that had become her life as of late. Nicky shook her head, pushing away the memories of the slain Wombosi photographs she'd had to file after the case; she'd never really been comfortable with death, despite dealing with it every day with her job. As the handler for Treadstone agents, she'd only dealt with it indirectly; she'd had instruction in defense for emergency situations during a field assignment, but fortunately for her those had been rare. As she thought back to one of her few real serious situations, she smiled dryly; pretty much all of those crisis situations had involved Bourne.

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She was posted in Paris then as Bourne's handler. She had arranged to meet him at a small café near the Eiffel Tower; they never met in the same place twice. She had scheduled a regular meet to give Bourne a new phone and do a field check of his equipment, a routine inspection that occurred every couple months, in between assignments. Since she was also supposed to monitor the health of Treadstone agents they would also conduct a preliminary physical, which usually took place every month. Every other month a health appointment coincided with a field inspection, and this was one of those days. Unlike the dead drop required for just a new phone, Bourne actually had to stick around for the appointment, which they were to conduct inside a room atop the café. 

The meet was at 4 o'clock, but Bourne was always early, so she arrived at about 3:35pm and ordered a cup of coffee, sitting at a table in the patio. Few minutes later she spotted him, striding towards her quickly and purposefully, standing out from all the civilians milling about. Her mouth went dry at the sight of him and her stomach flipped, her hand tightening convulsively around her cup. His entire manner screamed dangerous, but with so much authority he seemed invincible. His total command captured her, drew her in –

– And then he was right there in front of her, grabbing her upper arm so tightly it hurt, yanking her out of her seat and causing her to spill her coffee, steering her away from the café table.

"You've been compromised." He hissed into her ear. Ice gripped her heart, and it was all she could do to keep from stumbling, numb with panic as Jason hustled her through the crowd of people. He moved them down into the subway, the crowds thinning as he led her through more and more tunnels, leaving the station behind. Nicky threw a glance over her shoulder, but didn't see anyone suspicious following them.

A service door appeared on the left as they turned a corner; after checking no one was around, Jason pushed her in, then locked the door behind them. Nicky glanced around the small room that was most likely used as a supply room. It was rather cluttered, but they had space enough to move.

Jason stayed at the door to listen for footsteps, and Nicky noticed his shoulders relax, however infinitesimally; they were safe. For now. She put a hand over her eyes and released a deep breath, then sat down on a bucket. Jason glanced at her as he crouched beside the door, his body still tensed for action, and checked his watch.

"Do you know how was I compromised?" Her own voice startled her in the still air. Jason looked at her sharply.

"I don't know yet. He looked Russian. Keep your voice down." He returned to listening at the door.

Nicky rolled her eyes, and looked around the room. These guys weren't really much for small talk; that suited her fine, as she didn't talk much herself. Jason got up suddenly and walked to the back of the room, looking at the ceiling. Nicky stood, moving out of the way.

"I noticed this hatch when we came in," he said, standing next to her and pointing up. "A back door in case he comes in – we need a second exit." He got up on her abandoned bucket and stretched up for the panel. He wedged his fingers in the cracks to pry it open, and while he was busy working his fingers around the hatch his shirt rode up a little to reveal his stomach, and Nicky had a rare moment to admire his amazingly fit figure. Professional interest, of course.

Just then the door handle jiggled; Nicky froze, her head whipping towards the door, her heart leaping into her throat. Jason abandoned the panel and jumped off the bucket, pushing Nicky back to the wall just behind the door, a key now jostling in the lock. Jason covered Nicky's mouth when she gasped at his sudden movement, then flicked off the light. They waited.

Her body was a mess of nerves tingling in anticipation, Jason's hand clamped tightly over her mouth, his rigid body pinning her against the wall, his other hand firmly on her shoulder. The door slowly opened, effectively hiding them from the person who was opening the door. Nicky's heart pounded wildly as she listened, scrunching her eyes shut, waiting for a sound, any sound. Jason's breaths whooshed over her as he stood poised to attack, ready to whip around and strike at a moment's notice.

A broom handle clattered suddenly, and she jumped a mile, thankful when Jason's hand stifled her gasp. Jason shot her a sharp look, and continued to hold her still against the wall. They waited for a few more tense moments, then the door began to close, the janitor apparently having gotten what he needed.

Nicky closed her eyes in relief as the door finally clicked shut, and Jason dropped his hand, taking a step back, putting space between them. She leaned back against the wall and let out her breath in a rush, adrenaline coursing through her from their narrow escape. She glanced over at Jason, her body remembering the intense feel of him so close, her mind unwilling to recognize the obvious problem with these feelings. He met her eyes with an intense look for a moment, his jaw clenched; then he spoke.

"We have to move – we need to get to the safehouse to code this in and inform Langley. We'll complete the meet there." Before she could respond, he grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the closet, closing the door behind her and drawing his gun. After a sweep of the hall to check the coast was clear, Jason started heading back towards the station, Nicky following behind – he was letting her walk by herself this time, she noted gratefully. As the din of the station grew louder, Jason stashed his gun in his jacket and guided her through the throng of people with firm pressure on her elbow.

They emerged onto the sidewalk into the sunlight, continuing towards the safehouse. Jason's eyes constantly scanned for threats, and Nicky looked behind – no one seemed to be following them, but she'd relax when they reached the safehouse.

Nicky spotted the safehouse just ahead, and they walked to the door. Nicky punched her code into the keypad hidden underneath the mailbox, then swiped her passkey. Jason hung back a step, checking over his shoulder. The keypad beeped and she opened the door.

"I'll call Langley and report in, you can start checking over the equipment." Jason dumped his bag on the couch and strode over to the phone.

She took the bag and spread its contents out on the couch to take stock of what he'd used on his assignment. Once she arranged the items, she picked up his phone and flipped it open – Treadstone agents always had flip phones so nobody could accidentally see their messages. She erased the call history and deactivated the phone, snapping it shut and taking the new one from her bag, sliding it into his. He would activate it himself later using his code-in.

Jason concluded the call and came to sit down on the end of the couch, staring at the equipment laid out on the cushion. He glanced at his watch. _14:09. _He'd never much cared for these inspections, he didn't feel they were really necessary. These meetings normally took long enough, but since this was a special case he'd been ordered to wait with Nicky until someone came to debrief them. Until they arrived he had nothing to do but wait.

Not one to sit around doing nothing, he took out his gun to clean it for something to do. He took it apart and grabbed a cleaning cloth, absentmindedly watching Nicky work. She had neatly organized each piece by use into different sections, and she was making neat notations on a clipboard.

He was oddly intrigued by her meticulous organization; he supposed his interest in her systematic arrangement had to do with the fact that he rarely had time to put thoughts to what he saw, usually just attaching a meaning to his observations as fast as possible in order to act on instinct. His mind was always busy making calculations and judgments of tactical situations, his body immediately reacting with action and unconscious thought, and now he had time to relax and think.

Nicky felt his stare and glanced up at him, her eyes questioning. He half-smiled at her, the muscles in his face feeling stiff and unfamiliar with the motion, and she returned to her clipboard.

He liked the fact that he felt curious now. It was rather refreshing to let this emotion fill his mind, pushing away all his stress and tension; as an agent, even in between assignments, there was hardly time for such trivial things as curiosity. It could be dangerous, the old cliché about curiosity and the cat ringing true. His training had quashed any such notions of curiosity – you do not want to know what happens if you push that big red button. Just get in, do the job, and get out, without leaving a single trace. The Treadstone 'motto' to a 'T', if they had one, Jason thought blackly.

Just then a pain seared through his head, just between his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, hunching forward in pain. His accursed headache was back, in full force. Nicky set down her pen and paper with a frown and came to kneel in front of Jason, laying a hand on his knee.

"Did you get one of your headaches?" He nodded, grimacing. Nicky gently took his hands away from his face to get a good look at him, as he breathed heavily. "Bourne, relax. Can you open your eyes?" she asked, holding a light up and shining it in his eyes. "I'd like to get as much physical information as possible." She peered into his blue eyes, checking to see if the pupils were dilated. No physical changes were evident, appearing to be just a regular headache, but she knew better. Treadstone agents always complained of these, and the severity varied slightly from agent to agent. Jason's, unfortunately, were among the worst, and few drugs could do anything to help. Nicky stood up.

"I'll go get some codeine, I'll be right back." She left the room for the mini-pharmacy they had set up in the bathroom. She had a theory about the headaches; during the brutal conditioning the agents had to undergo during their training – the details of which she was glad not to know – the level of resistance the individual put up measured to an increasing severity of these persisting headaches. She truly wanted to believe Jason Bourne would be resistant to orders to kill, but he was always so hard and impersonal. Yet there were rare times like this when he would seem almost vulnerable, a glimpse of something more human showing through. Nicky sighed and grabbed the bottle of codeine, coming back into the room.

"Is it any better yet?" She asked Jason as she came in, but the couch was empty. A quick look around the room found him standing over at the window facing the street, watching the city bustle about, himself still and unmoving. He glanced over his shoulder at her, then walked over and sat on the couch again. He shook his head in response to her question, staring straight ahead. She handed him a glass of water and the pills, and retrieved her field checklist, sitting back down on the couch.

As she continued to document the state of the equipment, she threw him a sidelong glance. "Have you...noticed any patterns at all, any common triggers to your headaches?" He set his jaw.

"No, none. I have no idea what causes them." He spoke severely. This was old news, of course. He had informed her at one of their first sessions that the headaches never went away, that he had learned to push the constant pain away as best he could; unfortunately they flared up rather aggressively from time to time, never with any determinable cause. He was the first one of the agents to actually mention the headaches, and it was only because Nicky brought up the matter with the others that she discovered it a common occurrence among the Treadstone agents. Nicky sighed again, exasperated. The last thing Jason and the other agents needed to distract them was something attacking them from the inside. If only she could find out how to fix it.

"Well, this is as good a time as any to start the physical." She opened her bag and pulled out the questions sheet sent to her every month by the CIA. The list of questions asked about the physical health of the agent: if and how the agent's overall health has changed much, old injuries slow to heal, fresh injuries needing medical help the agents weren't capable of doctoring themselves, any symptoms of illness. She was ordered to ask these questions to the agents themselves and add her own observations as well, completely filling out all the forms.

Jason responded with few words as she questioned him, thankful when his headache lessened slightly, moving to the back of his head, and he could think more clearly, feeling more in control.

Nicky put the sheet down and pulled out a box with all sorts of doctor equipment, dragging a chair over in front of Bourne. Piercing blue eyes followed her every movement, constantly alert, always completely aware of his surroundings.

"Say 'ahhh'..." Brandishing a tongue depressor, she gave a smirk, the joke never growing old. He raised an eyebrow tiredly, but obeyed. Deciding his mouth looked good, no signs of redness or infection, dental health also in primary condition, she brought out a stethoscope.

"Could you take off your jacket, please?" She said, and Jason complied, leaving his t-shirt on. "Take deep breaths." Nicky put the scope to his chest, starting over his heart and slowly moving over to the lungs, one hand on the scope and the other feeling the expansion of his chest. She could feel his tight muscles moving through the thin shirt, and she tried hard not to blush. Attraction to agents was obviously highly discouraged and it hadn't been a problem for her at all, until today.

She'd always thought of him as handsome, regretting such an unfortunate waste of good looks, but never anything more than that. These men were dangerous, and everything she'd seen and heard pointed towards this fact. It had been easy to keep her distance, especially from the other agents who seemed to harbor more aggression. Jason had also appeared that way at first, but she could see now the significant difference between him and the others. As the day progressed he continued to reveal more sides of his true personality, warming up to her; it appeared he was beginning to almost trust her even, and that touched Nicky. These men were prone to paranoia, which was deadly when paired with their combative training – if you looked at them the wrong way, it wouldn't end well. Trust wasn't exactly commonplace. And yet, he had allowed her to see him in a moment of weakness, when he could have left the room or hidden the pain of his headache behind a hard mask, as the other agents did.

He had also taken care to keep her safe from the Russian, which the other assets probably would not have done, not bothering to risk themselves by approaching a tainted mark. This degree of self-preservation was not present in Jason, and saving her proved he thought her useful enough to want to keep around. She doubted he returned such an interest as she had in him, but she felt both desperately lucky and honoured that he would care enough to save her life.

And then there was that smile when she'd felt his gaze and looked up. She couldn't believe he'd actually smiled, the expression completely changing his face, erasing most of his tension lines and lifting his cheeks. She almost smiled herself, delighted that despite his severe mental damage Jason was still capable of feeling such emotions, let alone display them.

Back in the janitor room his close proximity had brought her interest closer to the surface than she liked; his deep intensity had been crowding her thoughts ever since, making her more than a little flustered.

She decided his breathing was fine, and quickly moved on, removing her hands from his chest and clearing her throat.

Jason smirked while Nicky's head was down busy filling out those forms; she'd forgotten to finish examining his breathing from the back. He'd enjoyed the touch of her light hands moving across his chest, even if it had been for completely professional reasons. And he knew from the way she used the papers as a desperate excuse to avoid looking at him that she thought so too.

Nicky brought out a blood pressure monitor next and strapped it onto his left arm, trying not to notice how well-muscled his arms felt beneath her fingers. Realizing she had to stop thinking this way – and right now – she cast around for something negative to sober herself, before she made a fool out of herself. Securing the cuff in place, she remembered why he was so well-muscled in the first place and what he used those muscles for; that did the trick. She took the hand pump, taking a deep breath, and pumped it up until ready, her head considerably clearer. Her feelings were once again safely tucked away behind that wall, so she forced herself to concentrate on the exam. The test finished with an annoyingly cheerful beep, and she recorded the results on the sheet (a perfectly healthy 108 over 74), and stood up.

"We're about finished, I think. Unless they've added something again." She flipped the current sheet over the clipboard, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the last instructions, her emotions cascading right back over that wall. Jason waited, registering her strange reaction.

"Uh, one of the last things I have to check on is visible scarring, to see – see if you're healing properly." She looked at him, a cool expression slipping into place to mask her embarrassment. "I have to check your torso and legs, so if you'd please remove your clothes." She turned away to set down her clipboard, using the opportunity to compose herself internally, desperately trying to remain professional. The part of her that was feeling more giddy by the minute giggled at the thought of turning around to find him wearing rubber ducky shorts. She faced him again, noting that he wore just plain old black boxers, his jeans in his hand.

She cleared her throat. "It says here you've got a nasty welt across your right hip I'm to examine specifically, see if I need to fix it up." Bourne nodded, catching her eyes with a riveting intensity, tossing his jeans aside. Grabbing the hem of his shirt he tugged it over his head and laid it on top of his jeans. Nicky swallowed and looked away. He was quite clearly in perfect form, his muscles rippling as he turned back to face her, giving her his full attention. She took a deep breath to steady herself and stepped over to him.

She was surprised to find him nearly the same height as her; he was only a couple of inches taller. Her eyes swept over his torso, her clinical interest just barely thwarting the blush that threatened to flame up her neck and into her cheeks. Surprisingly, he had few scars; there was a small mark near his collarbone, perhaps left by shrapnel, and a few faded scars here and there across his belly.

A clean line slashing down diagonally from his back to his front mid-torso on his left side caught Nicky's attention. She reached out to trace it, feeling the raised skin with her fingertips, imagining an assailant's knife missing its intended internal target as Bourne whirled out of its path.

Jason softly inhaled at her unexpected touch, his eyes nearly closing for a moment, tingles shooting through him from her warm fingers as they slowly trailed along the scar. She glanced up and their eyes met, remaining like that for a moment. His expression remained slightly curious, and he could see the emotions behind her careful mask shining through her eyes, communicating without words what she was thinking. He felt warmth spreading from her touch, feeling a pull to move towards her, get closer to her.

Then she dropped her hand from his waist, breaking contact, the warmth disappearing with her hand, leaving Jason blinking in bewilderment.

She quickly stepped back, not meeting his eyes, moving around behind him to check his back and legs, where she found two more old wounds that had healed nicely. She came around to his right side and bent down to look closely at the mean gash on his hip, reaching out this time to prod and pry, examining the wound carefully.

"How did this one happen?" She frowned. His flesh was torn open, the edges raggedy. It was healing, but rather slowly. It had closed itself past any threat of infection, so she decided to let it heal on its own, but she wasn't quite happy with how it looked. She looked at Jason with her eyebrows raised as she grabbed her clipboard from the coffee table. He clenched his jaw, his eyes snapping forward.

"A mistake. One that won't happen again." She sighed, knowing he wouldn't offer more than that. She jotted down her observations, noting that it would need no further tending to, then looked at Jason again. Her eyes scoured his face, noting again the lack of scars. Save for a small nick below his right ear, he had no visible marks. She supposed that helped his invisibility; it would be easy to identify and describe a man if he had a large scar running down his face. Not all of the Treadstone agents were so lucky, yet she doubted it was actually luck that made the difference. She realized her eyes had been lingering on his face a little too long and she looked down at her clipboard, her cheeks heating up.

"I guess that's it, then," Nicky remarked. "I'll just go and fax these out." She walked over to the fax machine in the corner and started feeding the pages from her clipboard into the machine.

Jason pulled on his jeans, and was reaching for his shirt when the safehouse door beeped suddenly – he whirled and grabbed his gun, immediately training it on the door, motioning Nicky to move out of sight. She stepped behind a wall and peeked out. Her heart sank as she saw Conklin come into view.

"Put that thing away, Bourne." Conklin snapped, slamming the door shut behind him. Jason's arms immediately dropped to his sides as he stood to attention. Nicky sighed to herself and stepped out; this was more serious than she thought if Conklin was here. They were in deep, that's for sure.

"Sir." She addressed him, coming to stand next to Bourne, who was still shirtless. Conklin's eyes snapped to her, his face displaying disgust.

"You. Parsons. This is _your_ fault. You weren't careful enough, you got sloppy. That is _unacceptable_!" She winced. She thought she'd been careful enough, taking care to follow the simple CIA protocols and other precautions to blend in and stay inconspicuous. She hadn't noticed any evidence of a tail or anything until Jason had informed her earlier that day.

She cast her eyes downward. "I-I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

Conklin bit out a harsh laugh. "Sure as hell ain't, if you know what's good for you. This better not happen _ever_ again. You're staying low until we can clean this up, understand? You're stayin' right here until we fix this." With that he stuck his finger at Jason. "That's your next assignment, soldier – find him, figure out who he is and who he's working for, then end it." Jason nodded, his face expressionless. Nicky looked at her feet again. Conklin stepped closer. "You're lucky you aren't kicked out and reassigned, _Parsons_." He spat her name at her. "You've done satisfactory enough work to save yourself this time, but hear me, this is the last mistake you'll ever make. Am I clear?" Nicky nodded, not trusting herself to speak. "Good." He stormed out the door, slamming it viciously behind him, making Nicky start.

She closed her eyes with a mournful sigh, sinking down onto the couch. "Well, I guess you know where I'll be if you need to talk to me about your headache." She made a wry face at Jason, who still wearing no shirt on account of being interrupted while getting dressed. He nodded curtly, but didn't meet her eyes; instead he grabbed his t-shirt and threw it over his head, sticking his gun in the back of his jeans and scooping his equipment back into the bag. Nicky scowled to herself, disappointed. All his previous familiarity with her had dissipated, completely replaced with the determination for his next assignment. He had closed himself off completely.

He looked at her sharply, motioning towards the equipment. "Is this ready to go?" He asked shortly.

"Oh, uh, no, you need a new set of ammunition for the rifle." She stood up, going to retrieve it from the next room.

"Forget it, I don't need it for now. I'll be back for it later." He looked straight at her. "Be more careful or you're dead. Simple as that." With a slight shake of his head, his eyes impressed on her the heavy seriousness behind his words; and without another word, he was gone.

Nicky collapsed back onto the couch, putting a hand over her eyes wearily. She hadn't gotten a chance to thank him – if he hadn't taken her away earlier the Russian agent would've found his mark and she'd be dead without even knowing what hit her. She shivered, deciding resolutely that she'd definitely be more careful from now on. She owed it to Jason, if not herself. After cleaning up and filing away her now-faxed report, she stood tiredly and trudged towards the bathroom to take a much-needed shower.

* * *

**A/N: 14:09 in 24-hr time is 2:09 PM, for those of you too lazy to bother doing the math. **

**I really hoped you liked this chapter! I edited it extensively (some would say obsessively), but I am now extremely happy with it. If you would leave a review, that would so amazing! I would really appreciate it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey guys, it's me! Yes I'm still alive. :P This chapter has taken me a long time to write, and I got really stuck at one part, but I have finally finished! I apologize for the loooong wait (heh, 8 months?). Every single review kept reminding me that I had a story to write, I appreciate **_**every**_** single one of you who took the time to give me feedback. And each review made me do a little happy dance, so thank you so much! Enjoy!**

**ULTIMATUM SPOILERS! BELONGS TO UNIVERSAL STUDIOS!**

_23:42. _Jason frowned and shifted his weight. No sign of the person he was waiting for yet. He'd been sitting and waiting there for a long time, and was getting impatient. Suddenly, he heard some voices echo through the parking garage, and ducked down out of sight of the car window. Sounds of their conversation met his ears.

"– and good luck with the hearing. Don't let 'em trounce you too badly, you did the right thing."

"Thanks, I'll see you tomorrow. 'Night."

Jason went completely still as the front door of the little Mazda opened, and the person who last spoke plopped into the driver's seat, tossing her purse into the back seat. Jason reacted instantly and caught it right before it hit him, then slowly set it down on the floor without a noise. He waited silently as he felt the car start up, and she pulled out of the underground parking garage, heading towards home.

She turned off the main highway a few minutes later, and with fewer streetlights around Jason felt it was safe to make his presence known.

"Pam."

She gasped, and the car swerved a bit before she regained control.

"David! W-what, how did you get in here?" Her eyes were round in the rearview mirror as she stared at his reflection, wide-eyed.

"Doesn't matter. I won't hurt you." He said firmly.

"I know." Her expression relaxed, getting over her shock at seeing him appear in the mirror. "What is it?"

"I need to get out of the country. But the CIA is still looking for me, and I don't want to be found."

She nodded. "We have most of your passports flagged for nearly all the airports in the country, but Gilberto de Piento was never entered in the grid officially. Why not use that one?"

Jason shook his head. "I already have, and chances are someone might know it. I need to disappear, and I don't want to leave even a trace of a rumour that I'm exiting the country. Besides, the airports all have my pictures, I'd be ID'd immediately."

Pam furrowed her brows. "So, what do you need me to do?" A part of her mused about the blatant treason she was currently committing, but she didn't hesitate. The CIA had wronged David Webb, and if she could make up for that any way she could, she would, without a second thought.

"Arrange for a private flight to Europe tomorrow night, after your hearing. Take a few days off. No security, just you and the pilot."

"No security?" She shook her head. "That's impossible. I'd draw too much attention, people would ask questions."

"You're a smart woman. Figure it out." He looked out the window, seeing only dark streets. "Stop here."

She complied, pressing the brake and the car rolled to a stop. He opened his door, and grabbed her purse from the floor and tossed it onto the passenger's seat.

"Keep it within reach. You might need it someday when the person in the back seat isn't so friendly."

"David." She turned around and looked at him directly. His face was impassive, he didn't show any reaction to her use of the name. "I'll call you when we're ready."

He got out and shut the door, looking up and down the street, then disappearing into the inky darkness. Pam closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. The last thing she was expecting tonight was an appearance of Jason Bourne, adding more stress that she didn't need. She sighed as she thought of the hearing tomorrow, and started the car.

The responses to her whistle-blowing on Blackbriar had been mixed; some people, including her assistant Tom, were as outraged as her by this whole program and consequential cover-up, and agreed she had done the right thing. Others, however, felt she had betrayed the CIA by going public, and were working anonymously to bury the information from the public's eye.

Luckily the director who had replaced Kramer, Bruce Geitman, was one of the former, and he had fully reinstated her clearance, believing her to be an upright example for others to follow. Blackbriar was under a full-force investigation, despite naysayers' wishes that it be conducted privately and quietly. Pam was just glad that Blackbriar had been terminated, and that its wrongs were on the way to being corrected eventually.

The hearing tomorrow had been set by Senator Ballantine, who was reluctantly taking part in the investigation. It was clear that he had disapproved of her actions, and had selected the officials for the meeting accordingly; it appeared she had a tough fight ahead of her. She pulled into her driveway, thankful a soft bed awaited her, anxious to get some sleep.

As she undressed and got into pyjamas, her head was filled with thoughts of tomorrow's hearing, and of Bourne's unsettling appearance and subsequent impossible request; her brain simply refused to slow down to allow for sleep. She laid her head on the pillow and concentrated, willing it to just stop, she could figure things out in the morning. When that didn't work, she turned over on her side with a restless sigh, trying to get comfortable. Perhaps she could trick her brain with comfy softness? But her mind persisted, and a few minutes later she sat up, any illusion of sleep dispelled.

She huffed, feeling irritated and annoyed. She'd already prepared any notes and comments earlier today with Tom's help, so she had no other preparations for her hearing, other than getting as much sleep as possible. If this kept up she'd be cranky and stressed in the morning, and from the look of things, she'd have a little more excitement than she bargained for tomorrow, so she needed all the sleep she could get.

How on earth could she set up the flight that would sneak _Jason Bourne_ out of the country, right under the CIA's nose? She wracked her brain for ideas, but came up with nothing.

Shaking her head, Pam chuckled. She shouldn't even be jeopardizing her already shaky standing on this, it certainly wasn't her responsibility to ensure his safety, she was just barely keeping herself out of dangerous waters as it was. She owed any remnant of her dignity to Director Geitman. If she had any sense, she'd worry more about her hearing tomorrow than planning how to best commit treason.

Yet, Bourne had risked a lot to come to her, and as the only person he trusted in a position to help, she felt the same immediate obligation as before. She still worked within the organization that had destroyed his identity and substituted it with a trained killer; she would do everything in her power to try and make penance for the enormous wrong done to him. If only she knew how.

_Perhaps with Tom's help..._ Finally, an idea came to her for arranging the flight under the CIA's radar.

* * *

After Landy dropped him off, Jason made his way back on foot to the dirty little motel he was checked into. He reached his room, number 108, and ducked inside; he shut the door behind him, locking the deadbolt.

He tossed his bag on the small bed in the corner, and headed for the bathroom. He put both hands on the sink and looked hard at his reflection. His face was pale and drawn, and he had alarmingly dark shadows beneath his eyes. He grimaced; he must've been a sight in Pam's mirror, appearing so suddenly out of the dark.

He splashed water on his face, then grabbed his toothbrush and started brushing. He had a thorough cleaning routine he'd followed ever since the amnesia: he would meticulously scrub every inch of his mouth, starting with the gums, then the teeth, then his tongue, and then rinse thoroughly with mouthwash. He wasn't quite sure why he performed this task to such an extent every night and morning, but he couldn't _not _do it, grossly aware of the feeling of his mouth until he finally brushed it out.

He spat out the mouthwash, then drank some water from a disposable cup, tossing it into the garbage. He walked over to the little bed and moved the bag to the floor, then laid on top of the blankets, not even bothering to change or get under the covers. Setting his gun on the nighttable, he closed his eyes and slowly exhaled, willing himself to release the tension in his muscles, his body aching all over. Finally his ever-present exhaustion overtook him, and he dropped into sleep.

* * *

Jason glanced up and down the street, then walked up to the door of the café, noting the puddle of coffee on the ground that Nicky spilled earlier was still there. Adding to his suspicions, there was a closed sign on the door despite the fact it was daytime. He gripped the cold metal of the .9mm in his coat pocket as he jimmied the doorknob with one hand, the door opening easily.

He closed the door behind him with a small click and surveyed the room, drawing his gun. Directly in front of him was a staircase leading to a second floor, the dining area opening up to his left. He pulled the shades of the windows showing onto the street, and let his gun precede him into the room, footsteps silent, on the alert for any sound.

Finding no one downstairs, he went back to the front and went up the stairs. At the top of the stairs there was a window that looked out to the alley behind the store; he turned and went down the hallway that doubled back beside the staircase, passing by the two doors on his right and heading straight for the door at the end, where he had been instructed to meet with Nicky. If the Russian agent knew enough to know where Nicky would be, Jason suspected he knew which room they had arranged to use. Sure enough, as he approached he could see that the door was slightly ajar. His heart rate quickened; he was close. As he'd been trained, he directed the increase of adrenaline to his senses, focusing it to heighten his awareness.

He advanced right up to the door, and nudged it ever so slightly with his gun so he could see a little into the room. He could see a foot resting on a coffee table, and he could hear that the man was munching on something. Deciding he would draw him out of the room and investigate further before doing anything else, he backtracked down the hallway and silently opened the door on the end, but didn't go in; he continued to the window, sliding it quietly open. He looked down and saw a dumpster directly below; he pulled a magazine clip from his pocket, and let it fall onto the dumpster where it hit with a loud resounding bang. Quickly he withdrew into the open room, closing the door silently before the man came out and saw any movement.

* * *

The Russian scrubbed his hand over his head, his dark hair cropped close to his scalp. He was bored, he decided. That's what he declared after searching fruitlessly all around the room, looking for any clue or hint of the operation that was taking place here. What did he care about training methods and supposed behaviour manipulation? His system was simple enough; he did whatever the job required, and he got paid for his services and abilities. Which just so happened to be inclined toward assassin-for-hire, not recon missions, he thought resentfully.

He thought amusedly about how easy it had been to get the place to himself. Just flash a little gun to the owners and they cleared everyone out without a fuss, throwing up the closed sign and locking the door. A well-placed threat that he knew where they lived if they ever thought about telling anyone, especially the police, and they had scuttled right out after their customers.

Stalking upstairs and into the room at the end of the hall, he had half-heartedly hoped for there to be manila folders chock full of secret information just waiting for him on the coffee table, but alas, there was nothing. Which is exactly what he kept finding when searching every inch and crevice of the place, the room at the end of the hall yielding absolutely _nothing_. He had double-checked the other two rooms, just to be sure, but they were untouched as well. Then he returned to that blasted room in case he'd missed something, but again turned up nothing.

He grunted in frustration and strode over to the cupboard; maybe this whole thing wouldn't be a total bust if he could find something to eat. Besides dust, the only thing he could find was an old bag of peanuts. He shrugged and grabbed them, popping a few into his mouth and plopping down on the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table.

He absentmindedly munched on the peanuts as he mulled over the options for his next move. The best idea would be to find the girl's trail again and follow her until she gave something away, or he found a base of operations or something.

Just then, he heard a loud echoing clatter from outside and he leaped to his feet, his body welcoming the rush of adrenaline, desperate for action. He ran down the hallway and looked out of the window, searching for the source of the noise. Looking down, he spotted what seemed to be a clip of .9mm ammo lying on the ground beside the metal dumpster. Before he could react to the sight, there was a burst of pain at the base of his skull, and he dropped cold.

Jason hefted his gun in his hand, then pocketed it, taking the unconscious man by the arms and dragging him down the hallway.

* * *

He was jolted awake roughly as a splash of water hit his face. With a gasp, he shook the water from his eyes, and winced, breathing heavily; his entire head was throbbing hard from that hit. He became aware that he was sitting in a wooden chair, his arms and feet tied painfully tight to the chair with plastic straps. Standing over him was a stone-faced American, looking foreboding. It was Jason Bourne, he knew his face from the file provided to him. He was the agent the girl had arranged to meet, the sole agent of Treadstone alive known to his employer.

"Who are you?" Bourne demanded sharply.

He lifted his head and looked at the American with disdain. "I know only little English." He replied coldly, his voice thickly accented. He'd have a nasty bruise for _weeks_, thanks to him.

Bourne didn't blink. "I asked you a question." He crossed his arms and waited.

He clenched his jaw tightly in response and looked away. A surge of outrage coursed through him as he caught sight of his items he'd had on his person displayed on the table beside him. A pen, his gun, the small knife he kept in his boot, and his cell phone.

Jason followed his gaze to the cell phone. There was nothing on it, he'd checked already. No call logs or history, no stored numbers. It wouldn't be of any use unless someone tried to phone it, and he couldn't wait around for that to happen. So he'd have to move this along.

He moved to stand directly in front of the Russian, and looked at him squarely. "I will ask you once more, and once more only. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

The man stared back, mute, with a hint of a smirk lurking around the corners of his mouth, a challenging hitch to the eyebrow. Arrogance. Well, that wouldn't get him anywhere, Jason mused, so he made a decision.

Jason's fist shot out and connected with his head, snapping it back. The Russian hadn't been prepared for that, and an angry snarl replaced the cocky smirk, discoloration and bruising already starting to form above his eye.

Jason grabbed his jacket with both hands, yanking him closer, and yelled in his face. "Who are you working for?! How did you know where to find me?"

Again, the Russian stayed silent, glaring at him, but at least he was seething with anger. Progress. Jason released him roughly, then slammed him twice with both fists in quick succession. The man's anger seemed to be borne out of vanity more than intimidation, so he'd hit him where he'd feel it the worst.

"Never!" The Russian shouted, staring venomously at Jason.

Jason grabbed his gun and pointed it at the man's fingers, shouting right back. "You tell me right now what I want to know, or I shoot!"

"_Idiot._" He muttered murderously in Russian.

Jason narrowed his eyes, but before he could respond the man's cellphone rang suddenly, his head turning towards the shrill sound. He snatched it off the table and flipped it open; turning it onto speaker phone, he shoved it in the Russian's face and motioned for him to speak, raising the gun to point at his head.

With a glance at the gun barrel he bent over closer to the phone and spoke in Russian, _"I am here."_ He paused for a response.

"_Kirill. Do you have any leads?"_ A voice responded with a question, expecting an answer. Jason motioned for the man to answer, and listened carefully to the words and their pronunciations; he couldn't speak Russian, but if he could remember what was said and how it was spoken he could have someone else translate for him later.

"_No, there was nothing here."_ He shot a nervous glance at Jason, unsure if he could understand them or not, and unwilling to risk it. _"I will continue searching. I will update you when I find something."_

"_Fine."_ With a click, the conversation ended. Jason straightened, and schooled his features into an unreadable expression. He opened his mouth to speak, but the wail of sirens approaching interrupted him, and he turned his head to the door, listening.

He didn't have much time before the police arrived; he'd gotten as much from this man as he could, he was done here.

When the police broke into the room, shouting in French and brandishing their weapons, they found an unconscious man tied to a chair, bruised and bleeding from a cut on his face, with a knife laid beside him on a small table.

* * *

**A/N: Well, there it is! I hope you liked it, I would really appreciate a review to hear your reactions! Sorry about the lack of Nicky in this chapter, it just developed that way. Also, I apologize that the written Russian isn't **_**Russian, **_**the translation site was going crazy and it looked weird put into the story. And that way I don't have to provide a translation, either! Hopefully it was clear that the italics were supposed to be the Russian. Jason hasn't learned Russian, he's still pretty early on in his career as an assassin yet; because of the contact with these guys he will learn it soon, though. **

**Again, I am SO sorry it took so long to get this finished and posted for you guys! Please know that each one of you who reviewed forced me to write more upon receiving your review. Thank you! Hopefully the next chapter won't be so long in coming (I **_**want**_** it to be soon...), but I'm starting university in less than a week, so you can imagine what stuff will be occupying my time for the next while.**

**'Til next chappie!**

**Moony**


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